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Her history was open
on the surface, but its inner meaning was hidden from everybody. It was
exciting. And then sometimes he caught her looking at him from under
her brows with an almost furtive, sullen scrutiny, which made him move
quickly. Often she met his eyes. But then her own were, as it were,
covered over, revealing nothing. She gave him a little, lenient smile.
She was to him extraordinarily provocative, because of the knowledge she
seemed to possess, and gathered fruit of experience he could not attain.
One day he picked up a copy of _Lettres de mon Moulin_ from her
work-bench.
"You read French, do you?" he cried.
Clara glanced round negligently. She was making an elastic stocking
of heliotrope silk, turning the Spiral machine with slow, balanced
regularity, occasionally bending down to see her work or to adjust the
needles; then her magnificent neck, with its down and fine pencils of
hair, shone white against the lavender, lustrous silk. She turned a few
more rounds, and stopped.


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